as though she had not heard the
last words. "Bertie, I'm so miserable. You--you--wouldn't add to it all!"

"No, _cherie_, by Heaven, no!" he said, with vehemence.

"Then you'll stay, Bertie? You will stay?" Very earnestly she besought
him. Her tears were dropping on his hands. "Say you will!"

For a moment longer he hesitated; he tried to resist her, he tried to
take a sane and temperate view. But those tears were too much for him.
They were the one torture he could not endure. With a sharp gesture he
flung his hesitation from him. Yet even then he left himself a way of
escape lest the temptation should be more than he could bear.

"I will stay," he made grave reply, "as long as it would make you happy
to have me with you--that is"--he checked himself--"if Mr. Mordaunt
desire it also."

"But of course he does," said Chris. "He likes you. And I--I can't do
without you, Bertie--not now."

He heard the desolate note in her voice, and he did not contradict her.
Had he not sworn that while she needed him he would be at hand?

"_Eh bien_," he said soothingly. "I stay."

That comforted her somewhat, and presently, at his persuasion, she sat up
and dried her eyes. It was too dark for them to see each other, but she
held his hand very tightly; and there was comfort also in that.

"Now you will come away from here," he said. "Mr. Mordaunt is very
troubled about you. He would not come to you himself because he thought
that you did not desire him. But that was not true, no?"

Again that hard shudder went through Chris. She was silent for a little,
them "Oh, Bertie," she whispered, "I wish--I wish--it hadn't been he
who--who--" she broke off--"you know what I mean. You--saw!"

Yes, he knew. It was what Mordaunt himself had suspected, and loyally he
entered the breach on his friend's behalf.

"_Cherie_--pardon me--that is not a good wish--not worthy of you. That
which he did was most merciful, most brave, and he did it himself because
he would not trust another. I wish it had been my hand--not his. Then you
would have understood."

"I almost wish it had been!" whispered Chris; and then, her words
scarcely audible, "But--but do you think--he--knew?"

"_Le pauvre Cinders_?" Very softly Bertrand spoke the dog's name. "No,
Christine. He did not know. His head was turned the other way. His eyes
regarded only you. And Mr. Mordaunt was so quiet, so steady. He aim his
revolver quite straight, and his hand tremble--no, not once